


In Which Napoleon Ruins A Perfectly Good Zegna

by fineandwittie



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Coming Untouched, Humiliation kink, M/M, PWP, Public Sex, Wall Sex, i mean that literally, illya is a cocktease, public semi-nudity, references to public nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4699325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fineandwittie/pseuds/fineandwittie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re going to come without a hand on you, Cowboy, or you're not going to come at all. Understand?”</p><p>Or </p><p>the one in which Illya threatens to steal Napoleon's clothes, Napoleon can't tell if he's being serious, and they have sex against a wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Napoleon Ruins A Perfectly Good Zegna

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at real porn. Any criticism is very welcome :)

The grit of the brick against his cheek was beginning to sting. His fingers were already bleeding lightly where he’d been scrambling against the wall, unable to find purchase. The scrap of Illya’s zipper against the bare skin of his ass was nearly as unbearable as the grind of his leaking erection into his own fly. It all left Napoleon gasping and desperate under Illya’s clever hands.

“You’re going to come without a hand on you, Cowboy, or you're not going to come at all. Understand?” Illya’s voice was like velvet brushed backwards, soft and rough and right next to his ear. Napoleon could feel the other man’s hot breath ghost over his skin. 

Napoleon whimpered, completely unable to control his reactions. He was on fire. He couldn’t catch his breath. He could barely remember his own name. But one name he did remember… “Illya! Please. God, please. Please.”

Illya laughed and Napoleon felt the vibration of it all the way down to the tips of his curled toes. He arched his back a little more, ignoring the twinge and tried to bite back a moan. They were outside, for god’s sake, in a very public alley, where anyone might happen by. This was very very illegal and they were likely to have to kill whoever might find them or risk getting the shit beaten out of them. 

Finally, finally, Illya complied, snapping his hips harder, driving his cock into Napoleon’s prostate and Napoleon himself into the wall with each thrust. The American choked, tried to keep silent. One more hard thrust and Napoleon was gone, dropped over the edge into the most powerful orgasm he’d ever experienced. Which, he considered dazedly after a few moments, was really quite the recommendation for the power of Russian ingenuity. 

Illya shifted back and pulled out of him, letting thick white fluid drip down the back of his thighs. Which was the moment he realized that his pristine Zegna suit-pants were not only completely ruined, but also wet and sticky with his own come. He blinked and pulled back from the wall to look down. The wet spot was already spreading.

Napoleon could feel the heat building in his face. He hadn’t come in his pants since he was a green-boy, fourteen and overeager. His distraction allowed Illya to turn him and push his back against the wall without protest. The Russian undid the front of his pants, reached in, and teased a blunt finger over his now-soft cock. He flinched back, still oversensitive, but Illya didn’t remove his hand. 

“Look at you. Great Napoleon Solo, inveterate womanizer and playboy, coming in your trousers like inexperienced youth. You’re all wet and sticky now, and you have nothing to change into. No fresh clothes. You’re going to have to walk back to hotel like this. Through lobby, letting everyone see how you couldn’t control yourself. Maybe I will take you to dinner first, before we go to hotel. You can sit at table, come cooling in your trousers, wet spot clearly visible, your shame written in the color staining your cheeks.”

It was the longest speech that Napoleon had heard from Illya in a very long time, but it certainly had the desired effect. He was bright red in the face, blush spreading down his neck. He could see it, in his mind’s eye: all the people in the lobby of the hotel, looking at him, laughing at him because he’d come in his pants in an alley like a boy-whore, moaning Illya’s name. Or sitting at there restaurant, unable to hide the evidence of their activities, the waitstaff and other patrons sending him smug or disgusted looks, the come thick and heavy and running down his legs in front and in back. 

He’s hard again. A combination of Illya’s teasing fingers and his words. It hurts, it’s too soon, he needs more. Napoleon moans aloud, unable to stop himself, and Illya laughs again. The Russian doesn’t remove his enormous hand with its teasing fingers, but he also doesn’t wrap it around Napoleon’s cock. It’s clear that Napoleon is going to have to embarrass himself again, coming from just the teasing. 

Illya catches a fingernail in Napoleon’s slit and Napoleon’s hips buck. He’s begging again, can’t stop his mouth, can’t stop the horrible, humiliating orgasm that coiling around his spine. He can feel it build. 

“Please, Illya, please please please, fuck, I need—“

“Yes, I know exactly what you need, Cowboy. Maybe I should strip you, instead of bringing you to restaurant. Take all these soiled clothing back with me to hotel. Leave you bare, covered in come, to make your way home. Everyone will see. You will not be able to hide from anyone. You will walk through lobby naked, ashamed, trying to hide yourself, but of course it will be in vain. Maybe Gaby will be in lobby and she will see you. Exposed, your hips brushed by my fingers. She will recognize size of bruises, she will know they are from my hands. She will know whose semen is spilling out of your loose, grasping hole and coating the back of your legs. Would you prefer that?”

Napoleon gasps, Gaby’s knowing, superior face swimming before his eyes. He wishes he were naked, the cool air touching his overheated skin. He wishes he were wearing more clothing, to hide the evidence of his embarrassment. He wishes that Illya would just wank him already, fuck. 

He bucks again and whines low in his throat. Illya is playing with his cock still. His fingers dancing along it, flicking at the tip, pulling at the slit. The man is ignoring his balls completely. Napoleon needs something more. He pushes back, thinking maybe the feeling of the wall again his bare ass will help, but at some point, without his noticing, Illya had pulled the back of his pants into place. He whines again.

Illya leans down and kisses his mouth, finally wrapping a fist around his aching cock. It only takes two pulls before he’s coming in his pants again, leaving more of a mess, and it hurts but it’s exactly what he needs and he can feel a prickle behind his eyes. He’s never going to live it down if he cries while Illya fucks him, but he’s not sure if he can help it and when Illya doesn’t let go of him, keeping wanking him through the orgasm and for a few extra pulls after, he gives up trying. Tears spill out, hot and unwelcome, to run down the sides of his face. Illya grins and licks them away. “Cry for me, Napoleon. I want it.”

So he doesn’t check the sob that escapes when Illya gives him one more tug and pulls his hand out. He collapses against the wall, spent and exhausted and filthy. 

They stay still for several moments before Napoleon lifts his head, face finally back under his control, and glares at Illya. “How the hell am I supposed to get back to the Hotel now?”

The Russian smirks cheekily, his blue eyes dancing. “I was not joking, Cowboy. We will get dinner or I will strip you and take your filthy clothing back to hotel myself and you will come back naked.”

Napoleon’s cheeks go hot and red again, as he stares. He can’t tell whether Illya's teasing still. He had to be teasing, right???


End file.
